


Letters Unsent

by Peachy159



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom
Genre: Best Friends, Dogs, F/M, Marriage, Pets, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, dogs are people too, life can be really fucking complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peachy159/pseuds/Peachy159
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I apologize in advance: I'm a nurse, and the writing 'style' for that doesn't require any fluidity or lyricism, to mention, so my writing has suffered over the years. </p><p>Most of this is sort of a journal; writing things helps me process and make sense of the world. I tend to write as though I am writing a letter to a friend, or to someone I would like to be a friend, or sometimes not to anyone specific at all. There is a bit from December 2014 that really was a dream I had, transcribed to the best of my ability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critique are always welcome. But please be kind: my tender little feelings would appreciate it. I have no beta, and not a lot of time, so editing is hit-and-miss. If you see any glaring errors, do please bring it to my attention. This is the sort of thing I get up to when it's slow at work; night shift, ya know?

6 December 2014  
04:00  


Ugh. I haven’t written anything just for fun for a while . . . months, probably. I keep dreaming (sorry—that was spaced badly [and it’s funny how typing this up changes the layout.]) of you. Not sexy dreams or anything, but that we bump into each other somewhere—a bookstore in yesterday’s dream—and just hit it off, like old friends who haven’t seen each other for years, but the chemistry is still there.

And you are the only repeat character in my dreams lately. This time, we literally bumped into each other. We were in a bookstore somewhere, in some moderately obscure aisle—historical medicine, specifically medicine on shipboard from the seventeenth through the twentieth centuries—is what I was looking for. I had my left arm full of books, and my head was kinda turned sideways—you know how do, looking at a shelf of books—and I took a step backwards, thoroughly absorbed in my search. You were somewhere behind me and had taken a half-step forward at the same time, equally oblivious to your surroundings. We bumped into each other, and I whirled around, prepared to either apologize or sock someone, and nearly dropped my top couple of books.

You caught them and set them back on my stack, even as we stumbled over “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I didn’t step on you, did I, oh, I am so sorry.” Then I really saw you, and said, “Ben? I mean, Mr. Cumberbatch?” flushing furiously.

You looked at me, and your eyes narrowed a little, and I blushed harder and said, “No, no we haven’t met. Sorry. Just, I admire your work. It’s fantastic. What are you looking for?” Your eyebrows squinched together and I realized—too late, as usual—that I’d jumped subjects with no lead-in whatsoever, and I thought you were just going to walk away thinking I was a profound idiot. I closed my eyes and sighed internally, then said, “Sorry. Again. I am the Queen of the Non Sequitur.” I ventured to open my eyes, and you were still there, looking slightly bemused, and I realized I hadn’t given you a chance to get a word out after the initial flurry of apologies. “Um. I meant, what book are you looking for? Right here? I mean, kind of obscure. Research? Um. I’ll just, ah. I’ll just shut up now.”

At that you laughed, and gesturing to my pile of books, said, “Actually I was looking for that one.” I must have looked confused, because you laughed again and pointed to my mountain of books. “That one, third from the top.” I looked down, then craned my neck in an attempt to look at the titles. You flushed a little then, and said, “Sorry, if I may . . . ?”

“Of course, of course, sorry. Here,” and proffered my book stack. You deftly removed the one you wanted and held it up in front of your face. “Oh! Hey, yeah, I’ve been looking for that one for ages.”

“Me too. I’ve been so busy with work, going back and forth; I spend more time in the air than on the ground. I suppose I could just order it, but that’s not—“

I cut you off (sorry, rude!) and finished the sentence with you, “half as much fun.” We both laughed out loud at that, even as we covered our mouths and looked around, trying to quiet ourselves and make sure we weren’t bothering anyone. I said, “Well, then you absolutely must take this one. It’s the only copy they have, but I’m sure they can get another one for me.” You started to protest and moved to put the book back on top of my stack, but I whisked it away, turning side-on toward you so you couldn’t reach my left side. “Nope. Absolutely not. I insist. I’m all of fifteen minutes away, and you are an ocean plus a continent. It’s no big deal.” I twinkled at you then. “If it makes you feel better, you can get me a cup of coffee. Light, no sugar. They always have a pot going in the back.”

“Yes, and it’s always good coffee, too. Thank you,” you said, smiling and waving your book over your head. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” That surprised me; I blinked a few times, then opened and closed my mouth twice, then nodded. You smiled again and turned away, heading toward the back of the store and the coffeepot.

I set my dozen or so books down on the floor and continued my perusal of the volumes on the shelves, scooting my intended purchases along with the side of a foot. You returned, a cup of coffee in each hand, and proffered one, then pulled it back as I reached out to take it. It startled me, and I felt my face flush again as I looked up to see you even more pink than I, and looking flustered. “Ah. Sorry. I, ah, lost track of which was which. And you don’t take sugar, and I don’t want to give you the wrong one when you’ve been so very kind, and I know taking a drink of something and getting a surprise isn’t very, ah, nice.”

My eyebrows went up, then down a little, and I smiled and said, “Well, it’s a fifty-fifty chance. I promise I don’t have any cooties in the event I get the wrong one. Unless you’d rather . . . ? No, I thought not,” I said in response to the involuntary face you made at the idea of unsweetened coffee. “Okay, well let’s have one then.”

I’m sure I was smirking by this point, and watching the expressions flitting across your face was highly entertaining. I held my right hand up as though I was swearing in at court, and my left hand out towards you, palm up. “I promise, no cooties,” I said very solemnly. “I know these things: I’m a nurse.” At that you laughed, then handed me a cup. I took a sip and made a face, handing back the cup. “Ew. That one’s yours. I’ll trade you.”

You laughed again as we swapped cups of coffee. We both took a long drink, then sighed happily. Our eyes met and we grinned at each other. Then my face went serious, and I asked, “Hey, may I ask you something?”

Your face shuttered, but you were too polite to just say no. “Ah. . . .”

Coffee in my right hand, ready to take another sip, I waved my left hand lazily. “No, no, nothing like that. Or whatever. Just a personal question.” I felt you go even more closed. I quirked an eyebrow, then asked with a meaningful look at your cup of coffee, “Were you a hummingbird in your last life?”

You looked startled, then you laughed until your eyes watered and you were bent over at the waist. You set your coffee down on a shelf, then wiped your eyes. “No. God. No. I wasn’t expecting that,” you gasped out, and grabbed the nearest shelf—which had your coffee on it—for support. I snatched the cup before it could spill and continued sipping my coffee, trying not to laugh at your response to what passes as my wit. I was smiling behind the shelter of the white Styrofoam, however.

You wiped your eyes again, then drew both hands down your face. “God. Sorry. I haven’t laughed like that in . . . I don’t know how long.” You levered yourself upright and I returned your now-tepid coffee. You took a sip and pulled a face. “It’s got cold.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

You flashed a grin at me, set your cup down again, then bent over and snatched up my pile of books, retrieved your coffee, which you then swigged down, then said, “I have an idea. Let’s get our books, and I’ll take you to lunch.” You checked your watch and corrected, “Er, or an early dinner.”

I was floored. My favorite actor ever, and one of the people I have most wanted to meet in my whole life, was standing here in front of me, looking hopeful after having asked me to dinner. My eyes were so wide I was afraid they might just fall out of my head like marbles, hit the floor with twin clunks, and roll away. Under a bookshelf, maybe. I bit the inside of my cheek to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. All this flashed through my head in an instant. “Yes!” I all but shouted. You drew back slightly and I saw the shutters start to come down again. “I mean, yes, that would be lovely,” and then I told you what I had just been thinking. I saw you withdraw a little further, and start to consider ways out, until—and I can’t believe, even in a dream, I did this—I told you even about the visual of the eyeballs rolling away. Which must have struck you as funny, because I saw you kinda come back, and I could see you thinking. So we paid for our books and walked together out to our cars, and you said, “So, dinner? If you still want to?”

I smiled up at you. “I’d love to. I know a place, about twenty minutes from here. You want to follow? Or I don’t mind driving.”

I could see you were deciding, weighing the risks, then throw caution to the winds and you answered, “Sure. Let’s go.”

I grinned at you and came around to unlock the door to my Jeep. I took both bags—your books and mine—while you clambered in, then handed them back to you and slammed the door. I unlocked the driver side door and hopped in, got the car started, then turned to you and said, “This one place is Spanish. I like the tapas best, but they do full dinners, too. If that doesn’t work for you, there are dozens of restaurants—and a super cool record store and video store—all right there, so we can just walk until we find something that strikes you, all right?”

You had reached around and set the bags on the back seat and fumbled with the seat belt until you were strapped in. You smiled and said, “Tapas are good, but I’m easy. Let’s go and see what looks good when we get there.”

“It’s all part of the adventure,” I said, waggling my eyebrows. You laughed. “Oh, I have to warn you, though, I am allergic to fish and shellfish, so that limits us a bit,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t even like the smell anymore. Learned aversion.” I answered in response to your questioning look.

“I can work with that,” you said, rubbing your hands together. Then you looked over at me and my heart hiccupped. A man shouldn’t be able to look that . . . sweet, FYI. “Um, ‘part of the adventure,’ where did you hear that? How long have you been saying it? Why do you say it? What does it mean, to you?”

I glanced over at you and shifted the car into fifth gear as we came up to speed on the freeway. “Uhhmm. . . . Geez. Let’s see, how old am I? Ah, 36, so . . . about twenty years, I guess? I made it up. Just. There were a few rough years around then, a lot of hard stuff, and reading has always been an escape for me, since I was about four or so, anyway, and I realized that even in the most spectacular stories—Odysseus, and Hercules, and Belgarion, and whoever else I’ve read about—that there were times when their ‘adventures’ were bloody miserable, and cold and raining and tired and hungry. And that’s all fine later, when you’re home safe and warm, but maybe not so much at the time. You know? Having someone point a gun at you is just really fucking scary, even if it’s a good story later. So. Everything, it’s all part of the adventure, right?” I risked another look at you, only to see you looking intently at me.

“Yes,” you said slowly, “I get it.”

We exited the freeway then, and I deliberately lightened things. “Hey, this is one of my favorite streets. Look at all the cool houses. I’ll show you which ones are mine.” You looked at me again, startled. “Not really,” I laughed. “I just like them. I love neat old houses.” So I pointed out a dozen or so of my favorites, and you started to do the same, enjoying the silliness. That made me a little sad, remembering, and feeling the abrupt change in mood, you asked, “Hey, what’s up?”

I gave parking a lot more focus than it really needed. I shrugged, trying to make light. “Nothing. Nothing, really.” I shrugged again, then looked at you across the width of the Jeep, and it suddenly felt very intimate. “I’ll tell you, but it’s only fair to warn you: you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer, so be sure you really want to know.” We waited, looking at each other, my eyes shiny with unshed tears, yours a little wary, a little confused, a little curious.

Then you blinked and took a breath, sighing out the exhale. “Fair enough. Thanks for the warning.” You never looked away. “So. What’s up?”

I laughed a little and blinked the tears away. “My husband and I used to do that.” Alarmed, you looked at my left hand, seeing no ring. I looked too, and fidgeted with my ring finger, where I used to spin my wedding ring. “Yeah, no, I’m not married. I mean, I am. I mean, he died, a while ago. So whatever that means, as far as married goes. I still talk to him sometimes. And this was something we did, drive down here for lunch, or dinner, or to go to the market Sunday mornings, or sometimes just because. We both liked it here. Nice little liberal college town, lots to do, neat shops, lots of places to eat, and pretty places to just sit and watch the world go by And there’s a totally rad theatre here, too.” I looked up at you again, away from my naked hand. “So.”

You smiled lop-sidedly. “So.” You put your hand on the door. “Let’s go, see what there is to see.”

I grinned at you, still a little watery around the edges, then hopped out of the car, calling out, “Don’t forget to lock the door,” just as you shut it. You smiled sheepishly across the car at me and opened the door, then locked it and slammed it shut. I laughed. “Don’t worry; everyone does that, even my niece. You should have seen the first time she and I went somewhere in this. She couldn’t figure out how to open the window.” That made you laugh out loud.

We walked around the back of the car, and I started narrating, pointing to each place as I talked. “This is the video part of the store. They have or can get anything, it’s brilliant.” I looked over at you, coy. “It’s where I’ve bought all your stuff.” You colored again. I pointed to our left. “That is the music part, and they have a pretty decent selection of all kinds of things. The Spanish place is here,” and I looked over at where you had been a moment ago, only to not see you.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s more crowded than I thought it would be.” You caught up, a little breathless.

I scrunched up my face. “Yeah, sorry, I forgot today’s Saturday. We can go someplace else, if you like.”

“No, this is fine. It’s neat. And as you say, it’s Saturday, so anywhere worth going will be crowded.

“Heh. True.” I looked at my watch. Well, it isn’t quite five, but we can go look at the menu.” We were being jostled by the crowd, none of whom were paying any attention to you, my celebrity guest, which was part of why I had suggested this place. You offered your elbow, which I gladly took. “Thanks,” I said, looking up gratefully. “How tall are you, anyway? Sheesh.”

You laughed again, and answered, “Just shy of six foot one, but I usually only say six foot.”

“Huh. Great bloody giraffe. All you giant sasquatchy people give me a crick in my neck.” You looked startled, then laughed again, which made me smile despite my grumbling. “Sorry. Come on, this way,” I said, with a gentle tug on your arm. “Comes from being the family shrimp. I always wanted to be tall. You know, some great Amazon, with legs miles long.” I looked over at your legs. “Like yours. Giraffe.” You laughed again and blushed, and I smiled, charmed, and thought I would be as silly and outrageous as needed to keep making you laugh like that.

We made our way down the hallway, where we paused to look at the confessional, still sitting there. I grinned and said, “Yeah, the décor is eclectic and eccentric. And mostly for sale, if the price is right. It’s awesome. I want the bar, but that isn’t for sale, more’s the pity. Come on, the menu’s posted on the wall.” We spent a few minutes perusing the menu, making idle chit-chat.

“You say they aren’t open until five?" At my nod, you smiled and said, "so we have a little while. What is there to do until then?”

“Oh, hey! Let’s go to the music store! It’s rad—they have all these instruments on the walls and tables and stuff, and you can pick them up and play. It is super cool, and they have a bunch of CDs and stuff, a lot of local artists. And we have to check the poetry post. Let’s go, it's right across the street.” You looked amused again, I supposed at my enthusiasm. You proffered your arm again, and smiling up at you, I took it, and we set off.

I showed you the post out front, and Wade had put up some new stuff. I didn’t say anything, just read along with you, and you pointed Wade out as your favorite. “He’s the most clever. I think I would like him.”

“I agree. Let’s go inside and tell them; they’ll pass on the message. Oh, look! Ben Harper is here today! Come on, I’ll introduce you. He’s really nice.”

You stopped abruptly. “What? Ben Harper? Is here? In this store right now? Oh, god, I’ve been a fan of his for . . . I don’t know, years. We used to have to download bootlegs from online. Wait. What? You know him?” you asked incredulously, turning to look at me.

I swear I felt my eyes twinkle as my face scrunched up into a grin. “Yup. Not like we have brunch once a week, but enough to talk about what’s going on in our lives, new music, good shows, good books or authors, that kind of stuff. Yeah.”

“Wow. That’s brilliant. Yeah, okay.” And you opened the door for me, and we went in. You loved the store, you fanboyed over Ben Harper, and I bought all his CDs and had him sign them for you. I thought you might float away, you were so pleased. We played with a bunch of the instruments, and I held that gorgeous violin they’ve had in there for years and longed for it, same as always.

I regretfully put it back in its place, returned the bow, and we left to go have dinner. It was oddly intimate, the way eating there always is for a party of two, crowded at a tiny table, hemmed in by the press of people, in our own little bubble of conversation, having to lean in close to hear. We kept bumping knees under the table. As I said, oddly intimate. We talked about everything, whatever came to mind, from the menu to free trade to slavery to marriage rights. When we finally leaned back in our chairs, having eaten too much and talked too much, and enjoyed every minute of it, you suggested we go for a walk. I agreed on the condition that we get some ice cream to eat later.

We walked up and down the streets of old town, and I suggested we cross the street to the plaza to hear the music over there. “Sure. Let’s just pop into the music store one more time. I wanted to ask them something.” I shrugged and agreed, and we crossed the street again.

I wandered off to fondle “my” violin again, and you went straight to the counter and started a low-voiced conversation with the owner. Finally you straightened up and looked over at me, so I replaced the violin again and meandered back over to you. We walked arm in arm back to the car, where we stashed our CDs in back with the books. I locked and slammed the door, and said, “All right, over that way,” pointing west. “Let’s go hear some music.”

We walked arm in arm again, to my delight, and crossed the street to the plaza with the fountain and the movie theatre, where there was a group of people sitting in a loose circle, making music. “This is brilliant. I haven’t seen anything like this here in California.”

“Yeah, it’s there, but you have to know where to look. And when, really. I love this town.”

We sat by the fountain, listening to music and chatting for hours. Eventually, the musicians packed up, and we looked around the find the plaza itself nearly deserted. “Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, and then blushed immediately. “Sorry, sorry, I’ve got a mouth on me like a sailor. Sorry.”

You smirked. “Yeah, I’d noticed. You said ‘fuck’ seven times while we were at dinner.” I hung my head and wished the ground would open up and swallow me, preferably now. “Don’t worry; I’m not bothered. Maybe years ago, before I was friends with Martin. But you can’t have a delicate disposition if you’re going to spend time with him, or Amanda. So. What’s ‘oh, shit?’”

I was grateful, but still utterly mortified. “Ah. Just, it’s late.” I looked at my watch. “Really late. Don’t you have to work or something? I have to get you back to your car. Shit. Sorry, sorry,” I winced.

Your eyebrows went up slightly. “Yes, I do have to work, but I’m not due on set until two. So it’s all right. We should probably start back though. My car is what, about thirty minutes from here?” I nodded. “Okay. No problem. And where’s your place?”

“Ah. About ten or fifteen minutes that way, up in the foothills,” I answered, pointing northwest. I thought for a minute as we walked back to my car. “Well. It, um, sounds wrong, but I really don’t mean it that way, but you could just come home with me—I have two extra bedrooms and a couch that guests actually bicker over—so, you know. . . . We could sleep then neither of us would be driving exhausted. It’s been a really long day.”

You were quiet as we walked, and I was intensely grateful for the dark, because I could feel myself blushing yet again. You unlinked our arms, and I tried not to cry, then you slid your hand down my arm and took my hand. “I think that would be lovely. Thank you. Do you mind if I shower before bed? I can’t stand to get into bed feeling dirty.”

Then I did start to cry, from relief this time. I sniffed and gave myself a mental kick in the butt, and said, “No, not a bit. That would be fine. I’m the same. I can just throw your clothes into the wash, and find some sweats or something for you to wear.” My voice must have given me away, because you abruptly swung in front of me and stopped so suddenly I bounced off your chest even though our hands were still linked. “Shit! Sorry! Again.”

You kept our hands entwined and raised them to your chest, and put your other hand on my arm. “Hey,” you said so gently it brought a fresh bout of tears, “what’s this?” You touched your thumb to my cheekbone and wiped the track of tears. “It’s all right, whatever it is. And stop apologizing. I’m supposed to be the excessively polite, repressed Brit here,” which made me laugh through the tears. You hugged me then, saying, “There, that’s better,” into my hair. “Now talk to me.”

I let go of your hand and threw my arms around your waist and buried my face in your chest and just breathed for a minute. “You smell good. And I have two dogs.”

“And which of those made you cry?”

I let go with one arm to playfully smack you on the shoulder. “Neither. But they’re big,” I muttered into your shirt. “Really big. They won’t jump on you, but they may sniff and kiss you to death.” I felt your almost-laugh rumble in your chest, and smiled. I pulled back a bit, enough to look at you, and sniffled again. “So. Um. Are you okay with dogs? They sleep with me—” at your look of horror I hurriedly qualified—“not in the bed, just on the floor next to me. And if I have to get up in the night, I invariably trip over them and swear. Just so you know. . . .” I drifted off, unsure.

“That’s fine. I’d be shocked if you didn’t swear, actually," you teased, taking my hand again and bussing the back. then we resumed our stroll back to the car. “So. Why the tears?”

I stopped abruptly and squeezed your hand, then opened my mouth to speak. You interrupted me this time: “We’ve talked about just about everything there is to talk about. I promise I won’t be shocked or offended, or call the morality police or anything.”

I giggled, a little watery around the edges, took a deep breath, and tried again. “No. I know. It’s just. . . .” I drifted off again.

“What? Need some liquid courage?” I nodded, mutely grateful. “Okay. So do we need to stop, or do you have sufficient for courage-boosting and sharing?”

“Ah,” I began.

You said, “If you have to think about it, let’s stop. You look like you might need a lot of it,” which startled me into giggling again. You looked at me out of the corner of your eye and smiled with affection. “You all right to drive?” I blinked and considered. “Okay, I’m going to do something I have never offered to do before on a first date: I’ll drive, you direct. Good?” I reached into my pocket and handed you the keys.

“You okay with a manual transmission, and on the wrong side of the road?”

You smiled sunnily. “No problem. It’s a four-wheel drive, so I presume the clutch point is low? Any quirks I need to know about?”

“Ah, just that I need to rotate and balance the tires, so she shudders a bit around 48 to fifty miles an hour. But we’re going to be on surface streets the whole time, and she’s old, so baby her,” I demanded, “and we shouldn’t be going that fast anyway.

You held up your hands in mock surrender. “As my lady commands. Got it.” We arrived at the car just then, and you made a show of unlocking and opening the door for me, and getting me comfortably seated and buckled, which made me giggle again, which made you smile. You got into the car, started it up, and said, “So, direct me. Which way?”

“Um. Quickest is north on Indian Hill.” You looked at me blankly. “That biggish street we crossed to get to the plaza?” I explained. At your nod I continued, pointing. “Okay, so go to that little alley, left onto the street, then right at the signal.”

You drove smoothly, and I closed my eyes, starting to relax, and then feeling like an idiot for crying on you. I felt my eyes tearing up and turned away, as though I was looking out the window. I don’t know if my breathing or posture changed, or if you just guessed, but you reached over and patted my knee gently, comforting. I sniffed again and wiped at my eyes and nose, and took a breath in to speak.

“If you’re going to apologize again, I’m going to have to resort to drastic measures,” you rumbled in that lovely baritone. “And I assure you, you don’t want that. So now which way do we go?”

I looked at you startled, and answered automatically: “Left at the signal. There’s a shop up here that should still be open. I’ll just pop in and get something. A decent single malt work for you?”

You grinned cheekily at me. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. Yes. That would be perfect. But I’m buying.”

I scowled at you. “No. You’re not. I’m the one who needs the . . .” I waved my hand in the air, not sure what word I wanted.

You scowled back. “Yes I am. You bought dinner, found the book I wanted—thanks for that by the way—and got all of Ben Harper’s CDs, signed. You made my day. Hell, probably my entire year. So I’m buying.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, but then we both have to share secrets. Shit, here’s the store, on the left. No, we can just hang a left up here and come in on the side,” I said as you started to move to make a U-turn. “Driving in this town—wonderful as its cultural offerings are—you can’t be too careful. It would be a decidedly ignominious death to be T-boned by a soccer mom out late at night, you know?”

You barked a laugh and pulled into the shopping center. “Yes, it would. So do you want to come in, or wait and I’ll surprise you?”

“Oh, that’s hard. I love surprises. But I’ll tag along this time, if that’s all right.” I mentally kicked myself: ‘this time?’ Sheesh, Watts, a little presumptuous, you think? But you smiled, so we went into the grocery store together.

We fooled around, being silly and making jokes about some of the alcohol for sale. You were pleased with the selection, though, and finally decided on two bottles of something a little more dear than I would have. I objected, but you insisted, saying that the first time friends get drunk together, it should be on the good stuff. I conceded, pleased that you said we were friends, and that you said "the first time."

We bought some snacks and some things for breakfast after I confessed the food situation was a little bleak at the moment. We drove to the house, and you commented as we were driving through the gate to my neighborhood, “You weren’t joking about living up in the hills. What’s over there?” you asked, gesturing north, towards the dark.

“National Forest, actually. My home is right on the edge, with the reservoir at the back.” We pulled into the driveway, and I leaned across you to hit the garage door opener. I blushed when I realized I had practically leaned into your lap. “Er. Sor—no, not sorry. Just, um, a little closer than I thought. Heh.”

You smiled and said, “That’s fine. Quicker than telling me which one, anyway.” We pulled into the garage and parked, and we heard the dogs barking before we had the doors open. I grimaced and said, “Now I really am sorry—no nuclear force reaction, please—I just have to go in and settle them down first, okay? Hang on just a minute?”

You nodded and handed me the keys. I unlocked the door and went in, talking to the dogs all the while. “Hello, pretty babies, I know, I was gone for so long. Okay, good girls.” They followed me into the kitchen. “Okay, pretty girls, now sit. Mommy brought home a friend I want you to meet.” Their tails wagged, recognizing ‘home,’ ‘mommy,’ and ‘friend.’ “All right, good girls, here’s a treat. Now sit. Stay.” And I came back to the garage door and let you in as I buzzed the big door shut. “They’ll stay until I tell them to move, but come in slow and let them smell your hands first. They’re very sweet, but pretty slobbery.”

You came into the kitchen a little tentatively, not entirely certain of your reception. I took the grocery bags and set them on the counter, then knelt down between my two girls. Speaking to the dogs, I introduced you. “Lucy, this is Ben. Sophie, this is Ben. He’s my friend.” You offered your hand again, and they looked at me, then sniffed your hand, tails wagging. Lucy then Sophie licked your hand, then looked back to me again for approval. “Okay, good girls. Go make friends. Ben, just stand still a sec. I’ll just get this all put away.”

They sniffed you some more, then sat down and looked at you expectantly.

“You’re supposed to pet them and tell them how wonderful they are, now.”

You smiled at me, then knelt down and started talking to Lucy and Sophie like you’d known them for years. “Oh, there’s my good girls, aren’t you so pretty. Look how pretty you sit down, such good girls. There’s my puppies.” I was charmed yet again.

I poured our drinks, then belatedly asked, “Oh, how do you take it?”

“Straight up, neat, water back,” you answered, looking up. I held up our drinks and waggled them. “Perfect,” you smiled.

I grinned. “Thanks. I poured them strong, though. I’m gonna start a fire, yeah? And don’t let the girls hog all your attention, because they will.”

You laughed and straightened up, dusting off your jeans. “Hey, before we sit down, you mind if I shower?”

“Not a bit. Come on upstairs, and I’ll show you the bedrooms. You can pick, but the blue one has all my sewing and crafty stuff in it.”

We went up and you decided you liked the blue room more, then I got you towels and washcloths, and some sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and even some warm socks. “You go ahead,” I said, handing over the stack of linens, “and I’ll see about getting us something to eat." Back down in the kitchen, I puttered around for a few minutes, then went about getting a tray of cheese, French bread, fruit, and some meats set up, talking to the dogs all the while. “Luc, Soph, what am I doing?” I looked at them as though expecting an answer. They pricked their ears. “I’m not being an idiot, am I?”

“No, not from what I can see.” I jumped, startled by your baritone coming from the kitchen doorway.

“Ah! How did you get down the stairs so quietly! They creak.”

Your eyebrows went up. “So they do. You were apparently deep in conversation with your girls.”

I hung my head in embarrassment. “Yes, I was. I talk to them all the time. I forget sometimes that they aren’t people. You weren’t supposed to see that. Shit.”

You laughed, amused at my discomfiture. “Don’t worry; I think everyone does it. I am glad you don’t do the whole baby-talk thing, though. My ex did that. It was creepy and vaguely disturbing.”

“Heh. Yeah. You mind if I run up and shower now? I’ll be quick. The drinks are in there,” I said, waving in the general direction of the den. “And snacks,” I announced, holding up the tray. “But if you get up, to go to the bathroom or whatever, put something over it so the dogs don’t steal all our munchies.”

“Got it. Go. You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” you said, taking the tray from my unresisting grasp.

I showered quickly and came back downstairs, wearing almost exactly what I had given you, only my shirt was blue and I had on slippers. You smirked. “What?” I asked, defensive.

“Nothing. It’s somehow unfair that you look cute wearing exactly the same clothes I am, while I look like a goon. You’re a whole drink behind," you said, holding up your glass. "So hurry and catch up.”

I cocked an eyebrow, took my glass and tossed back the scotch. You looked impressed. “Never dare a Scot to drink, love. Or a nurse. You’ll lose every time.” I flopped onto the couch nearest the fire, put my feet up on the table, then patted the cushion next to me. “Pour us another, then sit. It’s gotten chilly.”

So you sat, we talked until the sky lightened. I told you how heartbroken I was after my husband had died, and I got another dog, and was staying here even though every day hurt with its reminders of him, and that I hardly went out anymore, and meeting you was such a fluke, and even if we never saw each other again, this day would go on the list of best days ever. And you told me about being in the public eye, and how hard it made it to just live, and things that should be private were intensely scrutinized by people all over the globe, and you were never sure anymore if people spent time with you and wanted to meet you because they liked you, or because they liked your celebrity, and you were really glad that I had just told you right at the beginning that I knew who you were and thought it was great, then seemed to forget about it, and just talked to you like you were a normal, anonymous person.

I laughed at that, and told you that it was hard to be star-struck by someone whose foot you had just stepped on, who had bumped into your butt. You laughed, too. And I told you that of course I talked to you like a normal person: I’d never met you and didn’t know you. And that you were the first person I had connected with since my husband had died, and that’s why I had cried earlier. You made me see—really see—that life wasn’t over, and that good things could still happen. We fell asleep holding hands, sitting on the couch, with the dogs at our feet and the fire crackling.

And the dream went on, and we got to be the best of friends. We would travel together, and went camping, and you taught me to ride a motorcycle, and the Monday after that first amazing day, someone came to my door with a package, from the Music Center. I went ahead and signed for it, curious. You had bought me that violin. There was a note enclosed that said, “Someday you’ll have to play for me. Thank you for the best day I can remember, and for restoring my faith in humanity, a bit. See you soon.” I cried.

Over the years, I got to be very familiar with your spiky handwriting. We made it a thing, to get each other surprises and have them delivered, and to always include some sort of note. I don’t know if we ever became physically intimate or not, but it doesn’t really matter. We were best friends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for kind of stream of consciousness writing: it's how it comes to me for this particular thing, and I mostly write it out long-hand, when it's slow at work. I write as quickly as I can, in an attempt to keep up with my thoughts. Again, no beta or anything, and [sorry!] minimal editing, so let me know if you see anything that is out of order, or bugs you, or anything. Do try to be a little gentle bringing things to my (sometimes scattered) attention.
> 
> Oh, yeah. And I fear I tend to require beer-balls before I can actually _post ___something. So, um, please, let me know if there is stuff wrong, okay? Thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More journal-y this time 'round. Dated as it was written.

12 August 2014  
03:04

How has it gotten to halfway through August already? I'm not entirely certain where the year has gone, but I am not amused. At least not with the speed of its passing. I have a few minutes before I can clock back in from lunch. I'm going to hover by the time-clock and read so I don't forget, as I am wont to do. That reminds me: want versus wont. Not that many people use the latter word, but it's annoying to see them used interchangeably, when they aren't the same at all. Or vice/vise. Again, not remotely alike, but used one in place of the other ALL the time.

Okay. Done with the rant, for now. How are you? How have things been? After your San Diego visit, I'm guessing you've gone straight back to work. I haven't seen as much of you on Tumblr and YouTube and the like. I hope your mother and father are well, and that you get to see them at least occasionally. From what I have seen and read of them, they seem to be lovely people. ...I apologize for any seeming presumption on my part. I do try to adhere to at least American standards of acceptable conversational topics. Mostly. I think I (mostly) apologize—often in advance—for when I know I'm veering off the paths of the appropriate. Mostly. I guess that's really kind of it, isn't it: when I know. Some societal rules are perfectly understandable, even logical, and others . . . aren't, so much. Some of them I disregard intentionally (generally because they're stupid), others I just don't know, and some don't make any sense at all. I've learned to just keep my mouth shut. Mostly. (Seeing a theme here? Heh.)

I've never met you—but I will, dammit. It will happen—but I rather think we would get along. I don't mean romantically or anything, though I somehow don't see myself feeling that my maidenly virtue was being assailed, should that become a possibility.... I somehow just think I would find you interesting, and funny, and intelligent. And that you at least wouldn't think I was totally horrible, anyway.

Oh, the other day, John (my husband. Another story for another day. There are layers.) and I went to a luncheon thrown by the city to thank him for his service as a planning commissioner. It was well attended, and lots of fun. I really like most everyone affiliated with the city, which helps. I'm still not a huge fan of large social gatherings, unless I can do my thing: just kinda stand back and people watch. That's fun. I really prefer to see my friends one or two at a time—less stressful. But I have learned how to . . . not “fake it,” exactly, but how to be a gracious and even charming (!me! Ha!) hostess or companion. People have told I'm good at it, which is lovely, really, because for me it's a lot of work. I was very proud of myself when I finally—after ten years or so of acquaintance turning into friendship—confessed to RK that I'm really very shy, and rather retiring by nature, and he was surprised. Until the last several years, we only saw each other at (mostly large) social or work gatherings. John and I used to throw a Christmas party every year, on the second Saturday in December at our house, and would have in excess of 300 guests over the course of the evening. Not all at once—150 to 200 is about all we can squash in all at once, really. Especially if there's dancing, which tends to happen off and on. Nothing modern, though: some country-flatfoot stuff, contra dancing, and the like, but mostly Highland Scottish, and Irish. When two pipers are playing inside a house, by the way, it gets really, really noisy. So far, the only person who can dance the Ghillie Callum at quadruple time is Michael. He's a helluva dancer.

Here I've gone on for ages about me—that's the problem with letters. But I'm boring. So I'm going to be terribly rude and American, and ask you more about you, and what you think:  


Do you follow any sports, or teams at all? I don't; I just wondered. I bet you could explain the whole . . . thing that some people have with their teams. Is it a sense of belonging maybe, to something bigger than one's self? That's my best guess anyway. I've heard—correct me, or clarify, if you would be so kind—that you cycle (The Prince's Trust, right?) and run. The running, I'm curious about in particular. Do you run just for yourself? Do you do it for health, for fun, to get away, to concentrate? Or why? Any other sports or sporty-type things?

About a million years I ago I was a competitive runner, fair in long-distance, but very good as a sprinter. I'd love to get back to it, but my knees are shot, and I'm too young to have the joints replaced. Sigh. I love swimming, though, just being in the water makes me feel good, especially the ocean. You swim? You're built like you do, but that could be the running. I wasn't ever taught to swim, per se, but I've always managed, and love the water.

What/who do you like to read? Any particular authors or genre that appeal to you? I read everything, all the time. I have books on my phone, which is brilliant for waiting in line or at work when it's slow. I have been led to believe you have significantly more “hot cocoa” days in London than we are blessed with here. You know, when it's grey and rainy and cold out, and you can curl up in a corner of the couch by the window, with a blanket, a book, and a cup of hot cocoa. And a fire, whenever possible. Those days are best of course when you don't have to do anything, so you can doze off while you read, then wake up, stretch, and do it all over again.

What about music? I don't think I can count high enough to number the photos I've seen of you with your earbuds in, plugged into . . . what? Phone? iPod? Not sure. So what are you listening to all the time? Any favorite bands? Been to any good concerts? Is it really possible to find musicians just jamming in pubs, or is that total rubbish? The only places I've seen it here are at Finn McCool's in Santa Monica, and the Square in Claremont. That's a very pretty little outdoor courtyard-type thing, surrounded by dozens of little restaurants, and shops, and a Laemmle theatre (which I love, love, love. It's one of the few independent theatre chains in SoCal, and that's mostly what they show: independent and art-house type films.) which is brilliant.  
Speaking of which, what are some your favorite films? Big action films can be loads of fun, but I usually prefer to watch them at home so I can regulate the volume. And if all the flash-bang and millisecond long shots, or cuts, or whatever they're called start to trigger a migraine, I can make it stop. The movie, I mean. The migraine, too, if I'm lucky.

Do you ever get sick? I can see that sometimes you're tired, but I'm guessing—again, correct me if I'm wrong—that rather like one of your more famous characters, you tend to workworkwork, keep going until you body essentially says “fuck it” and crashes. Then—if you can—you sleep for 10 or 12 or 20 hours, then inhale an absurd amount of food—probably just whatever is there, then do it all over again. Yes? Or maybe not. Maybe you can somehow balance all the demands on your time and attention, including taking care of yourself. That would of course be much better for you, physically. And mentally, too, I should think. Don't know, myself. I'm still learning balance; it's hard.

You really love what you do, don't you? Are there ever days when you just really, really don't want to? What do you do? How do you get past that? If—no, when, dammit. When we finally do meet, I'm going to ask you. And I'm also going to ask if you'd do an experiment with me. The bare minimum for the experiment is about 40 minutes. You're quick on the uptake, so about five minutes should be enough to explain it. The longest I read about went I think 90 minutes. But I somehow don't think you'd be able to spare that much time, really. I dunno. You tell me. I think we would both have fun, though. And I have NO idea how it would turn out. But I can guarantee this experiment would not result in any harm to either participant, no matter how long we decided to go, and we would be in zero danger of having our eyebrows burnt off. (Which I have done, and in retrospect it's damn funny, but at the time—well, after, when I was sure nothing was irreparably damaged, but I was still with scorched hair and sans eyebrows—it was embarrassing. And kind of aggravating. And maybe a little exhilarating. Except for the eyebrows.) Have you ever done that? I'm guessing not, just by dint of the fact that you have eyebrows. Rather nice ones, actually: not too luxuriant, but visible. Mine did grow back, but they've always been kinda light, and totally disappear in photos, and bleach to invisibility in the summer. If I'm out in the sun. My hair used to bleach, too, a really pretty golden brown-blonde. But then I practically lived outdoors all summer long when I was a kid. Enough so that I would even tan. It was rad. You tan, at least a bit, I think. I will eventually, but my skin that doesn't see the sun ever is very, very fair. We joke about it at work—I'm part of a very small minority here, and everyone is fascinated by the colours that my skin will turn: white (default), pink, red, nearly purple, and green a few times. And I bruise really easy, which is no big deal, except I'm kind of a crash, so I always have bruises in various stages. One of the other nurses was teasing me about forensic nursing, saying that if I should ever be murdered or assaulted, I would look just like the textbooks describe the various wounds, so figuring out what happened by the marks on my skin should be easy. To which I cleverly responded, “Oh, ha. Ha. Ha,” and rolled my eyes. But it's true.

I need to find a different line of work. I'm totally okay with gallows humour, but I'm tired of people I like, and sometimes even love, dying. I've lost too many friends the last few years. I don't ever really want to sit down and think about all of them. A year or so ago I sat down and figured out that, at the time, over the last eight years, someone I knew had died every week to ten days. Of course, it wasn't all evenly spaced like that, but that's an idea of how many. And the last year or so, the pace has only increased. The patient acuity keeps going up, so the death rate is increasing on par. Ugh. Depressing. Sorry. And I have to get going, on that cheery note, you know, work and all that.

13 August 2014  
01:11

Taking an early lunch tonight. And I apologize in advance—again—for my execrable writing. So much faster and easier to type, but John continues to insist some of his work crap is entirely too sensitive to leave the house. I suppose I can see that might be true while a case is on-going, but it's not like these are issues of national importance, or security, or whatever. No one is even going to know who any of the people are, unless they are already a concerned party. And it's all backed up on an external hard drive, anyway.

I'm torn, lately. I want to travel, and see things, and do things. Go places I've only read about, and just see what there is to see. I want to meet people, and learn. Learn everything. I want to know everything. And I know none of that is going to happen if I stay with John. So. Do I just walk away? Or do I stay and wait for him to . . . I don't know. Fret, or sulk, or yell or hate or cling, or drink himself to an early grave? Because that's the road he's on. The road he's been on, for longer than I've known him.  
I think I started dating him because his particular brand of dysfunction is a type I'm familiar with, intimately. I know I have some of the same maladaptive behaviours, but not to the degree he does. And it's all so much like so many of the messed up parts of my dad. I didn't know back when it would have been easy to just walk away, but the fucked up shit that is so familiar in some ways—God help me—comfortable, is classic alcoholic, with a generous dose of codependence thrown in just for fun.  
I know I have some traits of both, too, but I've been seeing a therapist for years to address those things. I'm much better than I used to be, but still not where I want to be. Work in progress, I guess, right? Writing has always helped. I think it's a more tangible way of working through things, getting it to make some sort of sense, or just accepting that it doesn't and never will make any kind of sense.

Is it fatalistic—or something. I'm not even sure what word I want—to think that sometimes things just happen? That there isn't any particular reason, cosmically speaking? The last time I was at the Abbey, some guy was there with a woman I've seen there many times. I don't recall either of their names. That's probably rude of me, isn't it? Oh well. Anyway, the woman was asking about my hair—didn't it used to be very long? Why did you cut it? Just being nice, you know, showing she remembered me. I told her it was actually quite a bit longer than it had been for a while, which surprised her into asking what I meant. So I told her—very briefly—about the brain CA etc., and then this man jumped in, saying that wasn't that bad. His wife had colon cancer and it spread, ended up in her brain, she had surgery—multiple surgeries, and the brain surgery wasn't that bad. (It was the metz to the brain that killed his wife, by the way.)

I really didn't know what to say to that. He went on about how everything happens for a reason, blah blah blah. I wanted to punch him in his rather smug face. Instead, I asked if he'd ever had brain surgery. He said no, of course. So I told him it was the second worst thing I've ever gone through, and wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

…....

03:57  
Yet more paperwork awaits. My hand is killing me. (We still do everything long-hand, on paper, here. The Luddite bastards.) So, after psych assessments and tallies, care plans, daily charting, and weekly summaries—oh, and joy of joys: annual evals—which are a waste of time, frankly, because nothing actually changes because of them—I may or may not be back later today. Evaluations still await. And somehow I always get the, ah, more . . . challenging ones. Let's leave it at that. Back later.

04:22  
Okay. Not as bad as it could have been, but I only completed one of the three. She is a great employee, so hers was easy. One, I haven't seen in months and I'm not entirely certain she still works here. And the last one, I haven't had any trouble with, but I think that puts me in a distinct minority. Like, of one. So I'm taking the coward's way out and asking if I can do it with my supervisor. I even 'fessed up and said I don't want to be seen as solely responsible. What a weenie. Part of it, truly, is because I haven't had any trouble with her, and I want to keep it that way. And I would like for her to be able to feel that there's one person here, at least, who doesn't want to be awful to her and make her life miserable. She's been having a rough go lately, going back to school, juggling ailing parents, school, work, husband, and children. And I like her; we were hired at the same time, and have always gotten along. So I'm a total wuss and probably a coward. I don't want to hurt her feelings, and since it won't all be a glowing review, they will be hurt. Sigh.

07:44  
And now in a thrilling turn of events, I am waiting at the local Denny's to meet my friend Judy. I have no doubt you are as excited as I am. We are to meet at 08:00, and I came straight here from work. I was thinking of something I wanted to ask you, and something I wanted to tell you, but both elude me at the moment. Must've been boring. Oh, one thing, though, that was kind of . . . I don't know, funny, in a way, but odd, at least for me. You know I'm kinda—more than kinda, if I'm to be enitrely honest, but not in a creepy stalker way, right?—kinda crushing on you, and it has been SO much fun; I haven't gotten this silly and giggly since I was in my early teens. So thanks for that: it's a good ride. Okay, that wasn't it, though. I've been dreaming a lot lately, even for me, and very vividly—last night I kept hitting snooze because I was on some archeological dig somewhere, and I wanted to know what we would find. I've been dreaming about you a lot. Not so strange, really: crush, media presence, etc., etc., etc., but when I dream of you, it has almost always been . . . sheesh. 'Not sexy' sounds kind of insulting, and isn't entirely accurate anyway, because some of them have been. Pretty sexy, I mean. But no actual sex. Which for me is odd because I have sex dreams a lot, too. At least weekly. I mean, the good kind, where I actually get to finish—that's always when I wake up, is right after. They're brilliant, honestly.

14 August 2014  
01:18

Do you ever get so tired that you physically hurt? That's about where I am right now, so I'm going to snooze while I'm on break. Back in a bit.

27 August 2014  
03:49  


Or maybe a little longer. Oh, in case you haven't guessed yet, I am a Master at TMI. I hope you aren't easily embarrassed. Heh.

Okay. So. A dear friend of ours, Holly, knows someone who has an addict daughter, or granddaughter, or something, who is pregnant for the second time. And wants to give the child away. Holly asked us if we were interested, and of course we said yes. Then she told us the estimated due date is 5 September, and now John is saying no. This has happened to us before. I don't want to lose this chance. I'm sincerely afraid this may be chance number last, for me anyway—he has fathered a couple of kids, but not raised them. I'm 36, pushing 37 pretty hard, and with all my stupid health crap, I don't know if I could—or should, really—have a child of my own. I would love to; I always wanted a house full of children.  
I have the girl's number. I think I'm going to give her a call in the morning, and see if she is amenable to meeting somewhere and letting me pick her brain. I would want to know if she knows the sex of the baby, if she's had any prenatal care, and if so, who the doctor is, and where she would be giving birth, her medical history, and her family's, and baby's daddy, too, if she knows it. If this is to be a proper adoption, with paperwork and all that, if she or her family are going to want to be involved—I (selfishly perhaps) would prefer not—and really, too, I want to meet her to see if she's smart/average/an idiot, so I have an idea of how to begin working with the baby's intellect.

I don't know what to do if John really isn't interested. I suppose it doesn't really matter, because I'm not going to stay with him, anyway. I suppose that would make it harder to separate, if we both adopt a baby.

I'm trying to think of how this is going to work. Childcare is obviously going to be the most difficult thing to arrange. I wonder how Grey feels about infants? And babysitting? And how much harder is it to travel? I know a lot more . . . stuff, is required, but I also know a lot of the things first-time parents bring really isn't necessary. I dunno. I guess I'll know more later today.

So. That's me. How've you been? Besides busy, which for you is kind of a given. Any favorite projects? Least favorite? What's required the most research? Any you could just walk in and read it cold? How was your birthday? And thank you, by the way, for doing the ALS ice bucket thing—repeatedly. (I confess, I've watched the video. Repeatedly. And you look pretty healthy for a skinny guy, I must say.)

So. What do you think? About anything.

There are so many possibilities out there. I'm tired of—in essence—sitting around and resenting the status quo. “Same” all the time is boring. I mean, I get it, a degree of routine can be good, healthy, desirable, even, but not exactly the same things, with the same people, day after day after day. I'm not happy with this young lady and her baby, I think I'm going to pack a bag and hit the road. I've been homeless before, and then it wasn't entirely by choice. Now, I'm quite a bit older, and helluva lot wiser, and not entirely without means. I want to see what's out there before I get too old to care.

Before I go, I am going to renew my license and passport. I think by the end of this year, I'll be ready. And if I have a newborn. . . . I don't know. We'll see. I'm off to work.  
XOXO,  
LW

6 December 2014  
04:00

Ugh. I haven't written anything just for fun for a while . . . months, probably. I keep dreaming of you. Not sexy dreams or anything, mostly, just that we bump into each other somewhere—a bookstore, in yesterday's dream—and just hit it off, like old friends who haven't seen each other for years, but the chemistry is still there. And you are the only repeat character in my dreams lately.

06 January 2015  
11:20

"Because he will grip you by the shoulders and wrench you around and he will bring his bristly mouth to yours and blow stars down your throat until you are so full of light."  
— You Better Not Cry by Augusten Burroughs


End file.
